And Now, Back to You — Chapter no 15

CHAPTER 15

DELILAH

There’s a pattern to Jackson’s on-air anxiety.

He spends the morning taking meticulous notes on the forecast, rubbing his eyes every so often beneath his glasses, nudging them up with his knuckles. Rubbing his thumb over the bridge of his nose. A flurry of anxious activity and then . . . stillness. He grows more and more quiet as we approach our broadcast time until he eventually turns completely silent. He sets up our shot on the small deck that loops around the back of the property, his movements jerky and agitated. I chatter away, but it’s like he’s slipped beneath the surface, sinking down to a depth I can no longer reach.

Eventually, I stop trying, coordinating with Mark while Jackson gazes out at the view. He looks like something from a conservation catalog, standing there at the edge of the deck. Hands braced against the red-paint- flecked railing, his shoulders one sharp line. Blond hair a smudge of gold against the dark forest that spills out beneath our feet, all the way to the wide expanse of the lake, stretching out, out, out to the horizon.

It’s beautiful.

It’s also incredibly sad.

I hate that Jackson doesn’t trust himself enough to do it right. That he’s stuck in his own head, likely caught in a loop.

That he doesn’t trust me enough to help.

Mark pulls me to the side, doing a half-assed job of pretending to fix my

earpiece while Jackson does his best impression of a baroque statue six feet away from us.

I slap Mark’s hand away when it gets caught in my hair, pulling. “What are you doing?” I hiss.

“I’m trying to have a discreet conversation with you, not that it matters much. Weather boy over there is in full meltdown mode.” He frowns. “And I thought you were a handful,” he mutters under his breath.

We turn in unison to look at Jackson, pacing now, right outside the double doors that lead back into the lobby of the hotel. Both of his hands work a circuit through his hair, the crisp lines of his white button-down clinging to his biceps. I asked him in the room if it was his Saturday shirt, but he ignored me completely, straightening the cuffs and smoothing down his tie.

Jackson stops on a dime when he notices us staring, looking like a bespectacled deer caught in headlights.

I give him a thumbs-up. He grimaces back.

“He’s going to be fine.”

“He better be,” Mark sighs.

There’s something in his tone that sounds like a warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His severe expression falters, eyes darting away to scan the view. He fixates on one of the oak trees closest to the hotel, its long branches

reaching out over the roof.

“Nothing.”

“No, no. It was something. What’s going on?”

Mark sniffs, propping both of his hands on his hips. “I just want you to put your best foot forward, is all,” he says slowly and carefully. “You’re a talented broadcaster. I’d hate for someone to . . . find a reason to detract from that.”

My mouth hinges open, my jaw somewhere on the weathered deck we’re standing on.

“Mark,” I say faintly. “How long have we been working together?”

His mouth twitches down into a frown. That, at least, is familiar. “Three years, more or less.”

“And in those three years, you’ve barely remembered my birthday.”

He glances at me, offended. “I’ve gotten you cards.”

“You’ve written It’s your birthday on the back of 7-Eleven receipts.”

“Those receipts had coupons on them,” he mutters, defensive. “Thought

you’d like a Slurpee. Sue me.”

“I do like Slurpees!”

“I know!” he shouts back, throwing his hands up. “That’s why I got you one for your birthday!”

On the other side of the deck, Jackson stops his pacing and stares. His blue eyes flick back and forth between Mark and me, growing sharp when

he sees whatever my face is doing.

“Everything okay?” he calls.

So he can communicate. That’s good.

I manage a thin smile. “Everything is fine.”

He holds my gaze for another moment, assessing, then resumes his loop around the deck, slower this time. I notice he’s changed his path. Now he’s swinging back around the opposite way, keeping me in clear view.

Mark thrusts my microphone battery pack against my chest, then one of the aux cords. I fumble to grab them both before they drop, matching one of

Mark’s scowls with my own.

“I didn’t realize you cared.”

He huffs. “Of course I do, Delilah.”

I think of all the times I’ve wiggled my way into costumes. The absolutely ridiculous shots I’ve had to maintain. One time, specifically, where Keith decided right before our broadcast that it would be better if I was standing in waist-deep harbor water, and I had to wade my way in. I had smelled like old crab pots for days. Mark never said a word about any of it.

“You’ve had an interesting way of showing it,” I say, some of my frustration welling up and over. “This sudden concern for my well-being would have been nice during that report on the monkeys at the Baltimore Zoo, or at the Preakness, or the literal hundreds of other times I’ve been forced to look like an idiot.”

Mark stops fussing with his camera. “I thought Keith was just messing around.”

“Yeah, well. I seem to be the only person he bestows that particular honor upon.” I press two fingers between my eyebrows, then drop my hand. I don’t have time for this right now. “Thank you for your concern. But I can manage this broadcast just fine.”

Mark looks conflicted, but he doesn’t say anything else on the subject.

He seems to understand that I might try to strangle him with an aux cord if

he does.

“Delilah—” he starts.

All right, maybe not. “What?” I snap.

He’s staring at his camera in earnest now, turning the contrast dial up and then down again. “I have another question for you.”

I stare at him. “Which is?”

He clears his throat, then clears it again. “It’s about—it’s about Gianna.”

“Okay?”

He seems to war with himself down there in his hunched position, scratching roughly at the back of his head beneath the fabric of his beanie.

Then he stands, plants his hands on his hips, and levels me with a look. “Is she seeing anyone?”

I blink, then blink again. Even if I had a road map for this conversation, I’d be surprised by every turn. “Like . . . romantically?”

Mark’s eyes drag skyward, his mouth moving soundlessly. “Yes,” he agrees reluctantly, clearly hating whatever it was inside of himself that insisted he should ask this question.

My frustration shifts to amusement at the absolute agony carved across his features. “I don’t think she is, but she’s always been a bit of a wild card

in that department. Why do you ask?”

“That’s not your business.”

I huff, slingshotting right back to frustrated. “You asked me.”

“No one said you had to answer.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to grab Jackson. We’ll be at our marks in five minutes.”

I slip my battery pack in the front pocket of my jacket and intercept Jackson on his next turn around the deck. I grab him by the wrist and start hauling him over to an alcove tucked around the bend of the porch. It’s a small, private spot—likely used by catering teams in the summers— sheltered by the bare branches of the oak tree.

I push Jackson in first, then quickly follow. It’s a tight fit for the both of us, and I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.

His alarmed, frantic eyes, bright and focused on me.

“Uh.” He tries to rearrange himself so he’s not pressing me against the wall, but all he does is nudge his knee between my thighs. He abruptly stops moving, exhaling a harsh breath in an explosion of misty white. He

props his hand somewhere above me, his body stretched out in one long

line. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Yeah. I got that. When you hauled me bodily across the porch.”

My mouth twitches. It’s not like he put up a fight. “Are you doing okay?”

He nods, then releases a delayed breath. He sounds like a balloon losing air. “I’m fine.”

He is not fine. He looks like he’s being held at knifepoint. This broadcast is going to be a disaster if he goes on like this. He’ll be made into a meme that’s circulated no less than twenty-six thousand times. The thing with the floating head is already making the rounds.

I grab his arms. “Why did you want to work in weather?” I ask. On the other side of the deck, there’s a heavy thud as Mark sets up the tripod for the camera. From this angle, we can just barely make out his legs and the tiny pieces of white tape I put on the deck to note our spots. Jackson turns his head, but I grip his chin, turning his face back to mine. “Jackson,” I say, firm. Direct. “Why did you want to work in weather?”

Some of the fog clears. “I don’t know, I guess I—”

I shake my head. “No. You know. What was it?”

“I guess I like how reliable it is,” he confesses quietly. “I like reading the data and figuring out what’s going to happen next.”

I grin. Of course that’s it. That’s so delightfully in line with every single thing I know about this man.

“And when the girls were young . . . did you ever talk to them about the weather?”

He nods. “All of the time. I couldn’t remember any good stories when they first came to live with me, and we didn’t have children’s books, so I used to read them weather reports to put them to sleep.” He swallows hard and a shaky, trembling smile curls the corners of his mouth. “It worked every time.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I bet it did.” I squeeze his arms through the thick material of his coat. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go on the air in a handful of minutes. You’re going to stand next to me and look into that camera and pretend you’re talking to your sisters. Easy as that, okay?”

He doesn’t look so sure. “All right,” he agrees. “I think I can manage

that.”

“Good. Practice.”

He blinks at me. “Practice?”

“Pretend I’m the camera. What are you going to say?”

I watch as his confidence flags. “I don’t know, Delilah. Can’t we just go out there and get this over with?”

“Definitely not. No offense, but I don’t think you’re up to winging it right now.” I try to shake him back and forth, but he’s an immovable object, pressed up against me in this tiny, hidden corner. “C’mon. This will help.”

His jaw clenches. Then, very reluctantly he says, “Hello, Baltimore.”

I nod, waiting for more. He remains stubbornly silent.

“Great. What’s next?”

A short huff of frustration. “It’s about to snow,” he grinds out.

My god. This is about to be the longest broadcast of my life. “How much

snow?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Jackson, you took like forty-seven pages of notes this morning. Tell me about the shifting winds. What is it about this storm that’s different? What can the people in Baltimore expect? How do you feel about it and why are you—”

“Snowstorms happen when cold air, moisture, and lift combine,” he interrupts in a rush. “We know that. We’ve talked about it before. But this storm is different because the two air masses set to collide are wildly contrasting in temperature.”

His eyes are bright, his words slightly too fast. I don’t think he took a single breath during that entire bit.

I nod. We’ve managed to go from one end of the spectrum to the other.

“Okay, and—”

“It’s weird that the front coming in from the north is as cold as it is. We don’t usually see such drastic temperatures so late in the year. With global warming forcing overall warmer temperatures, our climate has slowly been shifting away from snow to more rain. So it’s weird to see this level of snowfall at this time of year and—did you hear about the corn sweat?”

I can feel my face pinch in confusion. “Corn sweat?”

He nods. “It’s called evapotranspiration.”

Oh, boy.

“In the Midwest,” he continues, words somehow coming even faster, “millions of acres of corn have started simultaneously releasing water vapor into the atmosphere. Because of the high temperatures, you know?”

“Okay, yeah. But, Jackson—”

“This phenomenon can increase already elevated humidity levels,

especially during peak growing season.”

“Jackson.”

“A single acre of corn can release approximately three thousand to four thousand gallons of water per day through evapotranspiration. That’s about the size of two concrete trucks. And that’s just in one day. Think about hundreds of acres, every day during the warm season.”

“Jackson,” I say again.

He doesn’t hear me. “Thousands of concrete trucks every day of additional humidity leaking into the atmosphere. Global warming is slowly killing the planet. Sea levels are rising and temperatures are more volatile and corn is sweating somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Iowa, and—”

I can’t take it anymore. He has completely lost the thread of his practice broadcast, in over his head in one of his weather rambles. It’s cute, but we’re set to be at our marks in approximately thirty seconds. We don’t have time for corn sweat, or whatever the hell else is bouncing around in that brain of his.

It’s not so much a conscious decision as it is a bone-deep urgency. I grip the front of his jacket as he rambles on and on, then I press up on my toes and drag his mouth to mine.

It’s quick—less than a handful of seconds—and chaste—my lips pressed firmly to his—but Jackson grows quiet and still against me. I linger for another heartbeat and then drop back to the flats of my feet. I stare up at him, my hands still fisted in the material of his jacket.

Pink cheeks. Crooked glasses.

Silence.

“Uh.” He clears his throat. Reaches up and touches his fingertips to his bottom lip. He looks dazed and confused. “What was—what?”

I try to look more confident than I feel. I just kissed my coworker. To get him to shut up. I have long jumped over any and all professional boundaries.

“You were spiraling,” I defend. “I was trying to distract you.”

I am painfully aware of every single place our bodies touch in this tiny alcove.

“Well,” he says. He drops his hand from his mouth. “Mission accomplished.”

I flinch. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper.

It was impulsive. Stupid. Jackson and I finally figured out how to work together and I threw a land mine in the middle of it.

“It’s fine,” he says, but he won’t meet my eye and he’s shifted backward, shoulders pressed to the wall at his back. He lifts his hand again but drops it abruptly, the long line of his throat working in a swallow. “It’s . . . fine.”

I have no idea what we’re doing. Sometimes it feels like we could almost be friends, and other times it feels like we’re still two people standing on opposite sides of the parking lot, scribbling passive-aggressive notes on the back of old receipts.

And then there’s times like right now, when it feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the space between us.

“Twenty seconds!” Mark barks from somewhere behind us and I flinch again. I could not have had worse timing if I tried.

“You ready?” I ask Jackson, but he’s staring somewhere above my head, forehead creased in thought. I sigh and slip out of our hiding space, hoping Jackson follows. Hoping I didn’t just make everything worse.

I grab my mic. I put in my earpiece. I distill myself down to a series of actions so I don’t have to think beyond this moment. I find my spot and Jackson reluctantly fills the space next to me. I force a smile on my face and feel it wobble.

Mark counts us down. Jackson shifts and for one aching heartbeat, I think he’s going to pull away. Leave me here alone in front of the camera.

But he doesn’t. The hand hanging at his side lifts, his knuckles brushing up against mine. My fingers twitch, wondering if it’s an accident, but then his pinky loops around mine.

Careful. Gentle. Out of sight of the camera. The only parts of us touching.

He squeezes once and I squeeze back, my heart tumbling in my chest.

The tiny red light flicks on, and Jackson— Jackson gives the best damned weather broadcast Baltimore has ever seen.

DELILAH STEWART: Hi, Baltimore. We’re out in Garrett County at Deep Creek Lake, getting ready to welcome our big winter storm.

Light snowfall has started, but no accumulation quite yet. We expect that overnight.

DELILAH STEWART: What do you think, Jackson? Will we wake up to a winter wonderland?

JACKSON CLARK: If the current temperatures hold and that massive cold front pressing in from the north continues to hover, I think we’re going to see much more than a wonderland.

DELILAH STEWART: Oh?

JACKSON CLARK: A slower-moving storm means more snow, and plunging temperatures will keep everything in sort of a stasis. And this storm has a wicked back end, with icy precipitation and high winds as a cherry on top.

DELILAH STEWART: A wicked back end, huh?

JACKSON CLARK: Yeah, yeah.

[pause]

JACKSON CLARK: Why are you smiling like that?

DELILAH STEWART: No reason.

DELILAH STEWART: I just like massive cold fronts.

JACKSON CLARK: All right.

JACKSON CLARK: And now, back to you, Baltimore.

DELILAH STEWART: Hey, that’s my line.